A Deviant Breed (DCI Alec Dunbar series)

by Stephen Coill

  ‘Ach! How many o’ us have got through a door by flashing our library cards when we didnae have our ID on us? All it takes is a thumb over the image, mon.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  On reflection, it probably was not a ruse Neil Conroy had never used. He was not the kind of detective to go out on a job without his ID, or try to blag his way into anywhere. Dunbar sat back in his chair and stared at his monitor screen and sipped his coffee.

  ‘M-two,’ he said softly.

  22

  The patrols scattered around the Lammermuirs remained frustratingly silent. It meant that they had been no sightings of the suspect, or that they were all asleep on the job. Dunbar also received negative responses from the covert static obs points in Braur Glen, and along the approach roads. Where would he take Ferguson, if not there? It would surely be somewhere symbolic, a place that meant something to him, to Morag as well, if they were in cahoots. Yet another educated guess, when he sorely needed hard facts.

  Briony Tyler had filled the down time ploughing studiously through Archie’s wordy manuscript and her dedication had finally paid off. Tucked away in a meandering chapter on the distinct topography of Braur Glen Archie had included an acknowledgment of his grandfather’s contribution to the search for Obag’s Holm. For no apparent reason the old man had banned Archie from ever exploring that area, and being a respectful grandson, Archie had obeyed; until that was that mysterious blogger rekindled his interest and by then his grandfather had passed away.

  Archie concluded that his grandfather had known all along that Braur Glen was the site of Obag’s Holm, but being a deeply religious man, he would have considered the glen tainted by the ungodly legendary activities of the Inglis Clan and thus kept it secret. To Archie it made sense, his grandfather would have worried that should anyone find out, it might have become a place of pilgrimage for pagans, Satanists, necromancers and their ilk. His grandfather had even disapproved of his wife entertaining their grandson, as she had his mother before him with ghoulish tales of the Witch of Obag’s Holm.

  Tyler concluded that if Fraser English knew, perhaps his daughter did. Was it a place she associated with her childhood abuse? It was certainly a place her father’s depraved acts of incest could have been carried out without fear of discovery. Had she drawn parallels with her ancient namesake’s lust for vengeance? It would explain why that place was chosen to rebury her father’s head and Murray’s there. And is that why Peter Nairm became so determined to join the professor’s team? At his mother’s behest?

  If Dunbar was impressed he hid it well leaving her feeling quite deflated. As it happened he was, but it her discovery had come too late to influence events and he was far more concerned with what was happening now than what might have happened back then.

  ***

  Frustratingly, the search for Mary-Mo English had also drawn a blank. She had dropped off the radar, once agency workers and an element of private enterprise crept into the care-in-the-community-programme. Living rough or from prostitution, or probably both, was as much as anyone who had handled her would venture. One former social worker was traced to Moffat and local officers despatched to glean as much as they could from her. She vaguely recalled a young and very agitated man had turned up at the hostel looking for Mary-Mo, as she preferred to be called, some years back. When he discovered that she had moved on he had tapped the manager for money. When she refused, and the moment the duty manager was distracted by a client, he had tried to break into the drugs cabinet. The police had been called but he had got away. No harm done, no police action.

  Trying not to lead the witness, but out of sheer desperation the officer suggested the name of Peter Nairn to her. After a moment or two the former social worker had nodded. Yes, that was it! She had made a poor joke about her favourite brand of oatcakes which had gone right over the junkie’s head. Whether he ever found her she had no idea, but he never came looking again and Mary-Mo never returned either. In her experience, “people who have lived on the streets know where to look, know who to ask.” People like Plug Nairn.

  Dunbar’s immediate thought of a likely site to find him – them, was the former Heathlands Hospital site at Wishaw, but that drew a blank; it was now a thriving business park. Inevitably Dunbar got sick of twiddling his thumbs waiting for that breakthrough that was not coming. The suspect – suspects had to be in Obag’s old stomping grounds and it was these where he and Tyler headed. He also sent Falk on another all-points check to make sure everyone out there still had their head in the game. It is far too easy to lose concentration on a job when all you seem to be doing is waiting.

  ***

  Finally a break of sorts came. A resident at Ramsay Garden had phoned the local authority to complain about an illegally parked car. A traffic warden attended and issued a fixed-penalty ticket, but that did not satisfy the complainant; he wanted it moved. The traffic warden, in a rather off-hand and officious way, according to the resident, had insisted upon abiding by the rules. The owner had to be given an opportunity to pay the fine before his vehicle could be clamped or impounded. So the indignant resident, who paid a small fortune for his street parking permit, lodged a formal complaint with the council, and when he got no joy, the police. Despite having explained that it was not a police matter, the officer who took the call had the presence of mind to PNC the car. It was Sebastian Vasquez’s Volvo estate. The suspect had switched vehicles and was probably now using Ferguson’s car.

  The call to the family liaison officer (FLO) was relayed to the missing doctor’s frantic wife and was interpreted by her as offering a glimmer of hope. Dunbar was far less optimistic but quietly instructed the FLO to make all the usual soothing noises. Frustratingly, Mrs Ferguson did not know her husband’s car registration number and claimed that his documents, along with all his personal papers, were kept locked away in his prized antique bureau. The key, of course, was on the same key-ring as his car keys, so Dunbar gave the order to force entry and retrieve the registration document. Mrs Ferguson baulked and insisted her objections be placed on the record, which they were, and then the officer complied. After a brief search they found what they were looking for, and to Mrs Ferguson’s horror, a lot more than they bargained for. A large collection of pornography, some downloaded from the internet, other images taken with a Polaroid camera, and all explicit images of young women, some pre-pubescent girls at the time the pictures were taken; all being sexually abused.

  Dunbar groaned upon hearing the news. As if he did not have enough to do. ‘Briony, get on the blower – I want a forensic team and officers from the high-tec unit up there pronto. And if they cannae drag their arses out from behind their desks, any competent detectives that are available. Tell them te seize all relevant material including the doctor’s computer,’ he growled. ‘Oh, and ye’d better tell ‘em te alert CEOPS, it might tie-in to a network they’re already looking at.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ***

  They were now looking for a silver grey C Class Mercedes. In no time a traffic patrol, who gave their location as Polwarth, responded. A vehicle of that description had passed them travelling in the opposite direction, heading east at Maxton at least an hour earlier. They only recalled it because the driver, its passenger and car did not seem like a match to the vehicle. They had not given chase for fear the suspect vehicle they were on alert for might slip through the cordon while they were checking it out. And that is exactly what had happened. Sods law: when you need traffic cops to act like traffic cops, they don’t.

  Any doubts he had dissolved with the next call. Neil Conroy had spoken to PC Claire Johnstone, who having seen the picture, confirmed that Dr Vasquez was not the driver she stopped at Carfaemill. The man had given that name and was wearing the Doctor’s ID around his neck, and did flash it at her, and yes, he must have obscured the image slightly. She had stressed rather defensively that the man driving it clearly knew a lot about the dig and did have a beard, but wore his hair in short drea
dlocks. At last they could put a name to their suspect, Peter Nairn – aka Plug!

  ‘Think, think, think!’ Dunbar snarled as he weaved his car along the twisting ‘A’ road towards Gordon, permutations of the possible sequence of events scrolling through his head.

  ‘Either Vasquez had rumbled him or simply wanted his car back and got more than he bargained for.’ he thought out loud. Tyler concurred with a nod. ‘Plug took him out to the reservoir and used what he had with him to get rid of the guy, a chain and petrol with the freshly cut branches the loggers strip off the trunks – to keep the blaze going. Green wood, it wasn’t ritual or by design – it was just what came to hand.’

  ‘Why didn’t he just kill and dump him?’

  ‘Because he’s a junky nut-job that’s obsessed by the history of Obag’s Holm!’ he shot back. ‘And it’s in keeping with how Morag Inglis dealt with her enemies.’

  ‘Why Vasquez? He was his friend – wasn’t he?’

  ‘Friends might be stretching it. Acquaintances with a shared interest, but friends? I don’t imagine Seb made friends very easily – but can imagine how much he would enjoy the company of a sycophant. And even if they were, didn’t I read that they punished their own worse than their enemies, if they betrayed the clan?’

  ‘Yes, that – yes, I seem to –’

  ‘I dunno’, maybe Vasquez threatened to report his car stolen if he didn’t bring it back,’ he cut in, his mind now racing. ‘That would have alerted us to Plug’s involvement.’

  ‘Betrayal,’ Tyler responded.

  Dunbar nodded. ‘To his drug addled mind, yeah – who knows? He has no idea we’re onto him, so he probably would have risked driving around in Vasquez’s motor, but not if he threatened to report him for nickin’ it. In that event, Plug would have to silence him. He’d probably already switched vehicles the night before and had Ferguson in the boot – or stashed away someplace.’ Dunbar drummed on the steering wheel with frustration. ‘Maxton, Maxton – that’s south o’ here. He’s avoided the obvious routes to Braur Glen but –’

  ‘Giving our patrols a wide berth,’ she speculated.

  ‘Yeah, but they weren’t looking for a Merc then. Where the hell is he heading for?’

  Tyler shrugged. ‘Still got Archie English’s phone number?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Call him, ask him if he can think of any other significant landmark or places likely to resonate with Morag Inglis other than Braur Glen?’

  Tyler made the call, and much to his chagrin, cut Archie short before he could expand on the depth research he had done into his broader family clan that led him to his conclusion. “What satisfaction would an Inglis take in smiting an enemy on their own ground?” Was the question he posed, before furnishing the information she sought.

  ‘Humes Castle,’ she said, shoving her phone into her pocket.

  Dunbar tapped it into his sat-nav. ‘There! Hell, we’re almost on top o’ the place.’ He hung a hard right onto a single carriageway road. Tyler had been right, the oversteer being a rush when you had it in sport mode; he nearly lost the back end into the dyke. They saw the Mercedes parked in the small car-park at the foot of the ancient ruins that loomed above them. Dunbar blocked the Merc in.

  ‘Back-up – now!’ he barked, already half way out of the door.

  Tyler was on her phone immediately. He walked as fast as his right knee allowed towards the steep steps carved into the hill. She followed after him with his stick and thrust it at him. He batted it away.

  ‘We might need it, sir!’ she said nervously, as she drew her telescopic Kasco and flicked it open. He snatched his grandpa’s kebbie and slapped it into his other palm.

  ***

  Humes Castle, a faded beauty, ravaged by war, age and neglect perched on a natural motte, a rocky outcrop. The overlaid castellated repairs that gave it its distinctive outline were an eighteenth century addition that made a lie of the ruin. Behind that fairytale facade ruined lives were going about a grim but ancient business, one as familiar to the fortress as the original stones that still remained.

  A few bent trees and gorse scrub covered their approach and a stiff breeze carried what noise they made scrambling up the pathway from the west side. As Dunbar hobbled up the steep embankment, he wondered how many had done so before, in a futile attempt to breach those awesome defences. His thoughts also ran to the poor devils that never made it. Having scaled the steep slope, Dunbar gulped down air, but not from exertion. They worked their way around the impregnable walls to the east side to discover the padlock on the wrought iron gate had been forced off. It lay shattered on the ground but still clinging to the limp chain it had secured. They were definitely in the right place. Good old obsessive Archie.

  Part relic part folly, Humes Castle, now an idyllic place but no stranger to executions, and being the ancestral home of Morag’s sworn enemies, it was the perfect place to exact revenge. Yes, if denied access to Obag’s Holm where better to strike a blow against her foes?

  The violence of the past and present were about to converge inside that ancient redoubt, and once again its walls would echo with the pitiful cries of a condemned man.

  Dunbar met Tyler’s frightened gaze. He forced a weak smile of encouragement and whispered, “Once more into the breach” – the only Shakespeare quote I know.’

  ‘Henry the Fifth had an army, sir, and reinforcements are on their way,’ she replied, between sharp breaths in similarly hushed tones.

  ‘You didn’t see what he did to Vasquez. We can’t wait.’

  Tyler rotated the Kasco in her palm, seeking reassurance from its firmness and the words of her self-defence instructor after being issued with it.

  “The law states that you can use reasonable force to subdue anyone that offers violence to you, or another, that you are charged, by virtue of your office, to protect. The question you have to ask yourself is – what is reasonable under the circumstances? So – providing you can justify it – yes, you can kill the fucker!”

  Like Falk, Sergeant Downes was an ex-Royal Marine Commando. As a consequence he was a lot more comfortable than she, when it came to the use of brute force, or consideration of the ultimate sanction. All of a sudden her lack of operational experience weighed heavily. She had not faced a violent offender since her probation, and then it was only dickheads with a few too many beers on board, or the usual football hooligans, and the odd domestic dispute. No amount of training can prepare an officer to face a potential killer who has tortured, burned and beheaded his victims.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  She swallowed, took a deep breath and nodded.

  Dunbar was no more eager than she was, but it did not show. It had been a long while since he took on a fit, younger man, let alone a fit and younger madman, juiced up on God-knows-what, while he himself was still not fully recovered from his injuries. Fear squirmed in his stomach and parched his mouth. Fear is good, provided you become its master, his grandfather always said. He slid his hand down the shaft of the kebbie, turned the head towards the ground. He thought of the poachers his grandpa had felled with it when working alone on those unforgiving moors, and of that dread whistle before, as a young man, he went over the top at Ypres. Fear reins in recklessness, but courage carries you forward.

  He had been in scarier situations but not in a long while. Where is Falk when you need him? With a final shared, uncertain look they edged their way in through the ancient gateway. A scream put a flock of roosting crows to noisy flight, cacking angrily, and was instantly gagged. Tyler gasped. Her heart leapt and she flattened herself against the entrance wall as the indignant birds spiralled over their heads. Dunbar snapped around and pressed his forefinger to his lips. Now they could hear faint retching sounds and coughing.

  The birds circled above them; a murder of crows. A very apt collective noun and ominous welcome, Dunbar thought as he led Tyler into the ruin, crouching as low as his damaged leg allowed. Then they caught their first glimpse of them. Adrenali
ne flooded Dunbar’s system; his heart rate quickened, muscles tightened and head swam. It can be a friend and a foe on such occasions, masks pain but stokes impetuousness.

  Dried blood stained the side of Ferguson’s head and the rag that acted as a gag. His sat on the ground legs spread out in front of him. The crotch of his pants was soaked with his own urine. Using cable ties, Plug had lashed him in a crucifix position to a picket fence that surrounded a crumbling internal wall. To keep kids and sightseers off no doubt. Fat chance, health and safety at work again. Any kid worth their salt would vault that in the blink of an eye.

  Ferguson’s past had finally caught up with him, and like their enemies of old he would know clan justice. He had tried begging for mercy, even offered, no, vowed that he would hand himself in to the police and confess his crimes, but his pleas had gone unheeded.

  Plug teased the gag to one side, forced Ferguson’s head back and poured petrol into his mouth, so that the fire would burn his mouth and throat, and keep him silent once the fuel-soaked material had burned away. With the gag firmly fixed in place again, Plug sat back on his heels to admire his handiwork. Old habits die hard and addictions harder still. He tittered childishly with delight and put the neck of the bottle to his mouth and inhaled deeply. Before setting it down he snorted the fuel as well. Solvent abuse as a child had begun his spiral into drug and alcohol addiction, and brought him comfort on cold nights, under cardboard, in doorways and alleys.

  Surprise was on their side but time was not. He was too far away for Dunbar to rush him. Plug was bent over Ferguson with his back to them sprinkling petrol over his helpless victim with apparent glee whilst taunting him with a Zippo lighter. Tyler’s blood was up too. She edged forward to pass Dunbar but he stopped her with an outstretched arm and signalled for her to move away to the right, while he crept up from the left, in a pincer movement.

  Ferguson’s terrified bulging eyes streamed with tears; then he locked onto the two new arrivals moving stealthily towards them. Terror turned to hope, but what chance? The instruments of his imminent death were there right beside him and within easy reach of his tormentor’s hands. A two litre pop bottle still half full of petrol and a machete plunged point down into the turf. His eyes flicked between them, Plug and the bottle.